Let nothing you dismay
by Jantallian
Summary: A simple act of seasonal generosity lands Slim and Jess up to their ears in mystery and danger. When Mort tries to rescue them, all three become witnesses to the climax of an old tragedy with a long shadow.
1. Chapter 1

"God rest you merry, gentlemen,

let nothing you dismay …"

 **LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY**

Jantallian

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Christmastide is not the time for quarrelling. And, to give them their due, Slim Sherman and Jess Harper did their best to keep it to their usual level of familiar bickering. But the circumstances were trying – especially when they found themselves struggling up to their necks in a snowdrift, with an overturned wagon below them and the two draft horses they had had to cut loose making a bolt for the warmth and comfort of home. Add to this the fact that Jess had gone paddling in a swollen river in direct contravention of Slim's specific orders. And, over and above his blatant recklessness, mix in their failure to retrieve the town's medical man who was now well and truly marooned for the festival. Season this lot with the close proximity of a couple of smelly sheep - the prospects were not looking good for a merry Christmas. Oh, and then there was the little matter of the warning:

"Make sure the wild man don't get you!"

At least the priest had escaped. Or at any rate, gone on his way, if not exactly rejoicing.

Now they were crouching round a smoky fire in a dilapidated hovel. Jess was huddled in his underwear beneath an extremely smelly bearskin rug – or maybe it was better just to imagine that it was still a bear-skin. Slim was stirring what he hoped was soup in a dented, blackened pot over the fire – but it probably wasn't. The sheep, getting warmer by the fire than the humans, smelt as bad as the rug – no, scratch that - they smelt indefinably worse!

The old man sitting on the bed was either crazy or drunk or possibly both. He might be wheezing and coughing too, but there was no sign of wavering in the ancient shotgun he had trained on them.

"This thing stinks!" Jess grumbled hoarsely as he hitched the rug around his shoulders. It probably had fleas too, but he was stubbornly ignoring this possibility. Sometimes it paid to be stubborn.

"You want to freeze to death right now?" Slim demanded testily. He was conscious that if Jess got pneumonia not only was the doctor stuck behind a sizable avalanche, but would it ruin Christmas too.

"It'd be better than bein' filled full of lead!" Jess pointed out. He eyed the old man with distrust and got an equally suspicious glare back. "How'n hell did we end up acceptin' his hospitality?"

Slim said nothing. He just looked meaningfully at the shotgun.

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 _Somewhere in the snow-bound wastes, a woman and child set out on their journey._

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They had ended up in this parlous state through their own seasonal goodwill. Tidings which were far from good had arrived in Laramie. A messenger from the isolated settlement of Spurcreek, a couple of hours up into the mountains above Laramie, brought news that it was running out of essential supplies. He'd headed straight for the Sheriff's office, knowing that Mort Cory was the best man to organise help, only to find Mort himself out of action. Fortunately Slim and Jess were there as well. Undismayed by the prospect of a hard winter journey, they had volunteered to take a wagon-load up to the settlement before heading home with their own provisions. As the doctor happened to be tending a confinement (also very seasonal) in the same place and the Reverend William Fitzwilliam had been blessing this out-flung congregation in advance of the actual day, it seemed logical to offer the two gentlemen a lift back safely to the town.

Excellent intentions! It was a pity that nature was pitiless and took no account of seasonal goodwill. They got the wagon-load almost all the way to the settlement, only to find the normally small Spur River had turned into a raging winter flood. The ford was impassable with the heavy wagon, but there was a sturdy rope and plank one-horse bridge. Refusing to be dismayed by this set-back, they began laboriously to lug the barrels, boxes and bags of much needed supplies over the swirling torrent.

The settlers had been on the look-out for their arrival and were soon man-handling the goods in a human chain, across the bridge and up the narrow pass which led to their homes. It was during the course of this activity that some helpful person took thought to warn Slim and Jess about the strange habits of their nearest human neighbour: human, but scarcely civilised, apparently. At the time, it seemed more like an elaborate leg-pull than another cause for dismay and so was firmly pushed to the back of their minds while the swift transit of the goods was at the forefront.

Everything was going splendidly until a careless moment and the slip of a foot sent a whole case of food tumbling into the river. Jess was at the far end of the bridge and reacted instantly. Slim knew him so well that even before Jess had moved a muscle, he yelled: "Jess! Don't! It's too …"

Too late. Not for the first time.

Slim watched grimly as Jess waded into the icy, but fortunately not too deep, waters. He grabbed the slowly rotating crate and heaved and wrestled it back to the bank. Result? One distinctly wet Jess, although the heavy leather of his chaps and coat protected the rest of his clothes to some extent. And, of course, one crate more of essential goods to bring the comfort and joy of Christmas to everyone in the little community.

From the far bank, Slim glared at his partner. His heart was thumping erratically. Minus Alamo, he didn't even have his trusty rope to lasso Jess with and so every muscle was screwed to screaming-point in preparation for plunging in to rescue him. _Really, there were times when Jess's recklessness tried his patience beyond belief!_ Slim paused here to consider his own attitude to the needs of the settlers. _Ok, he would have done the same but that didn't let Jess off for risking getting drowned and scaring him to death in the process!_

After Jess had squelched back to the Laramie side of the bridge, Slim uncharacteristically gave vent to his feelings, which resulted in a blistering three minutes of retribution descending on Jess's defiant head. It somewhat undermined their pleasure in the success of their mission.

So they stood together at the far end of the bridge - in mutually aggravated silence rather than seasonal true love and brotherhood - watching the last of the settlers staggering up the pass with the supplies they needed. All they had to do now was to collect the priest and the doctor and high-tail it for home and their own Christmas preparations.

It was fortunate that they were on the right side of the river and that the Reverend William Fitzwilliam, always one to supervise the activities of his flock, had joined them. As the last figure disappeared over the top of the pass, there was a prolonged rumbling roar. Only a few minutes after, snow thundered down into the narrow defile, obliterating both the tracks of the settlers and the track to their settlement. As snow-dust showered down on them, the bridge shook and rattled and the horses pulling the wagon snorted and shifted restlessly.

"Alas," the Reverend Fitzwilliam observed in sepulchral tones, "I fear our good medical man will not be joining us."

"No kiddin'?" Jess muttered under his breath as he brushed the snow off his already wet coat and hat.

Slim kicked him hard on the ankle. The Reverend Fitzwilliam was of uncertain temper and provoking him might just make their Christmas rather less pleasant than they anticipated. He cleared his throat and said tactfully and truthfully, "We must just pray that they all made it safely back to the valley. But you're right, Reverend, no-one is going to get out of there without a lot of digging. We need to get going for Laramie and bring back some help."

 _So much for a warm welcome in the saloon and rolling into your own blessed bunk just ahead of the dawn!_ Jess thought to himself. _Trust Slim to put everyone else first, regardless of the cost!_ But he knew in his heart he would have said exactly the same – well, maybe not exactly those words, but he'd have made the same response. _And wasn't Slim's unselfishness one of the things Jess most admired about him?_

The Reverend had brought his own horse over the bridge with him and insisted on riding it, despite the extra time this cost when they had periodically to stop and dig out the snow balled in its hooves. The draft horses fared better, as Smudge, the haulage driver and their owner, had taken the sensible precaution of packing their hooves with oil-sludge before they set out. It didn't make the pristine surface of the snow any prettier, but it was reasonably effective. In the event, however, the Reverend's decision to ride was the saving of them all.

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 _The woman stopped and lifted the child onto her back. The snow was deep in the gullies._

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Disaster struck, as it so often does, in a totally unexpected manner. It had begun to snow heavily. Visibility fell rapidly to a few yards. With the snowfall, the temperature seemed to have risen appreciably, but Slim was conscious of Jess dripping steadily – and probably miserably, although he would never admit it – next to him. It was fortunate that he was not entirely soaked, but nonetheless the weather could change again at any moment and Jess could literally freeze to death in a frighteningly short time. Slim turned his head and glowered silently at his partner.

Jess responded by giving him a slightly chilly grin. "I'm fine!"

"And I'm going to murder you!" Slim responded automatically. "You ought at least to have kept back one of those blankets for yourself –"

The grin broadened into genuine amusement. "Can't believe it, Hard Rock! Y'actually suggestin' we steal something just because I got a bit wet?"

Slim ground his teeth. "Borrow!" he said shortly.

"That's definitely a first," Jess chuckled, mostly to stop his own teeth chattering in an unseemly manner. " _You_ are really prepared to bend the rules because of something that happened to me? When it's entirely m'own fault?"

"I don't suppose it occurred to you," Slim snarled crossly, "firstly if you get pneumonia there's no doctor available – secondly if you get influenza you'll pass it on to the rest of us – thirdly if you freeze to death Andy's going to blame me – and fourthly it'll ruin Christmas!"

Jess leaned back in the seat and regarded him with amused affection. "Didn't know you were so sentimental! It's almost worth the wetting to see you gettin' so riled up …"

"If I didn't know you can't stand the cold," Slim retorted, "I'd reckon you did it deliberately just to see how far you can push me! Now shut up and take this!"

He loosed the reins momentarily in an endeavour to struggle out of his own winter coat in order to give it to Jess. This moment of well-intentioned inattention combined fatally with the fact that, while they had been arguing in a snow-storm, they had also driven off the main track back to Laramie. The combination of these factors led to catastrophe.

The horses pulling the wagon could have done it in their sleep; they really didn't need the supervision of any human. But the avalanche had upset them already, the diversion from the main track confused them and they were edgy and ready to spook at whatever might loom up out of the drifting curtain of snow. As Slim took his eyes momentarily off the track, something loomed with a vengeance.

"Halt! Now!" An old voice, cracked with agony and madness, rang out. A bizarre figure reared out of a massive snowdrift that completely blocked the road immediately ahead of them. It was brandishing an antique weapon.

It was also not the only thing to rear. The horses decided to put as much distance as they could between themselves and this eldritch apparition. Unfortunately they decided to bolt in opposite directions. The resulting forces acting on the wagon caused it to rock and sway violently. The surface of the trail was treacherous, with a steep drop to one side, down which the wagon, quaking and shuddering, proceeded to slip sideways. It weighed enough to drag the panicking horses with it.

The Reverend Fitzwilliam's horse screamed and turned on its haunches and galloped full tilt for Laramie. They should have been very grateful for this, but in the event were entirely preoccupied with their own fate.

The next few minutes were a nightmare of shattering wood and flailing hooves. Slim and Jess reacted as one, diving for the traces with drawn knives and slashing them as swiftly as they could, before the horses injured themselves and damaged the wagon even further. As the horses plunged free and bolted into the swirling snow, a trace snapped back, catching Slim a violent blow across the cheek. The wagon rocked equally violently and settled ponderously, pinning Jess face down in the snow under the front axle.

Slim surged out of the impeding drift and grabbed the front of the wagon. He heaved with all his strength. "Crawl, for heaven's sake, will you!"

Jess made a muffled choking sound but began to drag himself out of immediate danger. Or at least, that was what they both thought. Slim dropped the wagon, which tipped over even further until it was upside down with its weight partially propped up by the shafts. They both stood panting and shaking.

"You're bleedin'." Jess untied his bandana, which miraculously still seemed to be dry, and mopped the dripping blood from Slim's face. "Press this on it – hard!"

"I know what to do!" Slim snapped, sounding uncharacteristically ungrateful. The shock and exertion of the last few minutes had been profound. "What about your ribs?" He knew how often Jess had managed to get those stove in.

Jess cautiously drew a deep breath. "I'm –"

"Jess, if you say fine, I swear I'll put you back under that wagon!"

"Nothing's broken," Jess assured his partner hastily. "We should –"

Whatever he had been going to say was cut short by a blast of shotgun pellets over their heads. So much for being safe from immediate danger!

"Come! Now!" The same voice which had ordered them to halt, in what seemed like a hundred years ago, issued a croaking command that the owner was obviously willing to back up with hot lead. Standing above them on the track was a tall man, his shaggy white hair and long beard blowing in the snow-laden wind, his eyes gleaming with the light of one possessed. He was shrouded in tattered rags and skins, but seemed impervious to the biting cold.

"With me! Now!"

Slim and Jess looked at each other. There are some invitations you just can't refuse. As they scrambled and struggled their way out of the drift and back on to the track, Jess murmured: "Thanks, Hard Rock!"

"For what?" Slim sounded surprised, which just demonstrated once again how deeply instinctive was his urge to protect the people he cared for.

"Gettin' me out. A night under that wagon'd be real cold!"

"Cold!" The old man heard them. "Come!" He was a man of few words, apparently, but he gestured unmistakably with the gun.

For a moment, they exchanged silently the idea of overcoming and disarming him, but equally silently and immediately the idea of fighting someone so old and obviously emaciated was discarded. Slim and Jess followed their threatening guide, their faces bowed against the cutting of the wind.

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 _The woman bowed her head and kept walking,_

 _though the snow dragged against every step and her feet were bare._

 _Presently she set the child down again._

 _The snow was not so deep now that he could not walk in his bare feet also._

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The reluctant guests followed their guide a quarter of a mile uphill. It was a fairly steep climb and both the gradient and the icy surface made it hard going for the old man. He was limping quite badly, but with the fortitude of one who has done so for many years. Despite this, he did not pause until they came to shelter. There was a small cave, almost a scraping in the hillside, in front of which some kind of tent had been pitched, covering the entrance. The tent had been over-laid with branches and brush and on top of this a thick layer of snow had lodged. Had it not been for the footprints leading to it and a faint smell of wood-smoke, they would never have guessed it was there.

As they ducked under the low flap leading inside, the partners exchanged puzzled glances once more. They both recognised the heavy duty canvas of the tent that said 'army' unmistakably. The inside was as primitive as the outside and just as surprising.

The first thing which confronted them was a full dress cavalry uniform, complete with medals, hanging from a pole of the tent and eerily alive as it swung to and fro on the cords by which it was suspended. The sheep were pretty unmissable too, not only because of the smell but because they rushed up to greet the old man, lovingly rubbing around his legs. There was a good supply of wood, close to the entrance, and a fire burning low in a stone hearth at the mouth of the cave. Inside the cave itself, bracken had been heaped up to form a deep bed on which lay several malodorous furs.

The old man picked up a bear-skin and tossed it to Jess. "Strip!"

Jess caught the pelt automatically as he opened his mouth to say: "You're kiddin'!" but he never got the chance.

The old man leveled a steely gaze at him and ordered in the tones of one accustomed to absolute obedience: "Now!" Then he turned his gaze to the smouldering fire. "Fuel!" He looked at Slim commandingly and Slim automatically said: "Yes, sir!" and busied himself with the wood supply and getting the fire going into a good blaze.

When he had done so, he took the clothes which Jess had been wringing out in the doorway and hung them over the fire on the poles of the tent. The old man was watching them both closely and his gun never wavered for an instant, even when deep, racking coughs shook him. Apparently satisfied that they were going to obey his orders, he jerked his head towards the fire and said: "Cold. Sit!"

Jess folded up abruptly into a cross-legged position, which enabled him to get as close to the fire as possible, and hitched the stinking fur round him. Slim looked at him in surprise. He had expected at least a modicum of rebellion from Jess, whose resistance to direct orders almost went without saying. Now he sat still as he had been told, although he did push away the crowding sheep who had decided that he was another source of warmth.

The old man reached to a ledge in the wall of the cave and took down a big black cooking pot. He handed it to Slim, saying: "Boy Blue made food. Heat! Eat!"

He watched with an eagle eye as Slim once again obeyed. His gun never wavered.


	2. Chapter 2

'Fear not, then said the Angel,

let nothing you affright …'

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 _Really, he was dithering like an old man!_ Mort Cory fumed irritably as he fumbled with his keys, attempting to lock the office door with his left hand. _Darn the doc for insisting on strapping up his arm and making him wear a sling! It wasn't as if he'd stopped a bullet. Dislocating your shoulder catching a falling Christmas tree – albeit a large one – was downright undignified!_

Mort was far from his normal calm self. He longed to go home and get his boots off in front of the fire. _Darn again! Taking his boots off one-handed was a chore!_ At least the town was peaceful as befitted the season. Everyone seemed to be preoccupied with their Christmas preparations and even the saloon, when he dropped in, was quiet. He just hoped Slim and Jess had made it to Spurcreek with that load of supplies. An affectionate smile touched his lips as he thought of the generosity of his two young friends, especially as they'd intended to go straight back to the relay station and their own preparations yesterday, instead of staying overnight in Laramie in order to make an early start. All the same, he was increasingly uneasy. They'd left at dawn and he'd expected them back around mid-day. Now the afternoon was wearing on and already the day seemed to be fading into snowy twilight. _Yes,_ i _t was peaceful enough, but …_

A bolting horse hurled down the street from the northern end, making for the Livery Stable as if the devil himself was after it. Mort jumped hastily out of the way as it swept by. He had a brief glimpse of the Reverend William Fitzwilliam holding on to his hat with one hand and for dear life onto the saddle-horn with the other. Mort just wished he could have a photograph of the reverend gentleman's face! Unfortunately he was unlikely to keep still for long enough.

Mort sighed and trudged resignedly back down to the other end of the street. He was feeling decidedly tetchy. His head and his shoulder ached. He longed for the quiet of his own house and fire. But Slim and Jess were supposed to escort Fitzwilliam and the doctor safely back to Laramie. _What in the world could possibly have gone wrong with a simple and generous act of seasonal goodwill?_ He had not long to find out.

The horse had skidded to a halt and stood with its head over the yard rail, panting and struggling to get at the water-trough. Despite the icy conditions, it was sweating and steaming profusely. Cold water would be a distinctly bad idea. But Mort could see young Billy, the orphan who had found a safe niche helping around the Livery, coming out of the barn. They arrived alongside the Reverend's mount at the same time.

Fitzwilliam more or less fell off and would have landed in Mort's arms, if he had had two good ones. As it was, he succeeded in crashing against the sling. Mort's howl made the horse jump a mile again. Fortunately Billy had grabbed it and led it swiftly away to walk around until it had cooled down some.

The Reverend sounded as if he needed cooling down too. For a man characterised by grave dignity and authority to make such an entrance to town was unheard of. For a man whose eloquence kept his congregations in their seats for hours at a time, his incoherence was beyond belief.

"Wild – horrible apparition! – Wrecked! – Buried! –" he gasped and wheezed.

"What in tarnation are you telling me, Reverend?" Mort demanded sternly. "Calm down! I can't understand you."

"Avalanche! - Doctor trapped - Turned back – Lost - In drift!"

This unhelpful litany was interrupted by more galloping horses. Smudge, who could recognise his own from the sound of their hoof-beats, appeared through the barn door and yelled: "Whoa! Hold up there! Bessy! Tally!"

The two big horses turned towards his voice and halted, lowering their heads and whickering. They sounded mightily relieved. Mort wished he felt the same, but as he viewed the slashed harness and the state of the two animals, foreboding and dismay welled in his heart. Nonetheless, he was not a man to be unnecessarily fearful ahead of the facts.

It took him several minutes to get a coherent statement from Fitzwilliam. Then he was yelling at Billy to saddle his horse and running full pelt for the saloon to summon a rescue party.

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 _The woman kept within the tree-line but followed the course of the valley downwards._

 _The child walked behind her, light-footed, light-hearted, amongst the glittering snowflakes._

 _The rendezvous was safe enough. Well off the main track to the town._

 _At the edge of the forest she halted and looked down._

 _Not far now._

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It was not soup in the black pot. Slim dished up the whatever-it-was into a couple of tin mugs. The old man rummaged around in some sacks stashed on the ledge and produced cornbread or at least, cornbread of a sort. It was stale.

Slim and Jess were in no position to argue the toss over whether they were going to eat or not – not with a shotgun pointed at them. Slim even grinned a little to himself: _Jess would eat pretty well anything which wasn't actually still alive and wriggling._ Jess spared a thought for the hard years and the prison-camp: _he'd eaten plenty of things he couldn't identify then, some of them still alive and wriggling._

The concoction seemed to be made of meat of a sort and indeterminate roots and … Jess fished out a particularly peculiar-looking component and regarded it quizzically.

"Fungi," the old man told them.

"Thank you for feeding us." Slim was always polite, even in the face of enforced hospitality.

"Yeah. Warm food is good," Jess agreed. Neither of them mentioned the ingredients.

The stern old face thawed into a slight smile for a second. "Boy Blue knows his onions." It seemed to be a joke because speech was followed by the harsh sound of laughter gone rusty in the man's throat.

The hot food did provide them with a measure of comfort, if not joy. When they had eaten, Slim found a water-skin and washed out the mugs. It was too much to hope for coffee in such primitive conditions and there was none to be salvaged from the wrecked wagon. Instead he used some cold water to bathe the throbbing cut on his cheek, although he tactfully declined the pot of salve which the old man produced for him. After this, he reached up and felt Jess's drying clothes. They still left a lot to be desired. All the same, he had a feeling that Jess was not going to tolerate sitting in his underwear wrapped in a smelly rug for much longer. At least the sheep had decided to leave him alone. They had settled comfortably about the old man's feet.

"Pets?" Slim enquired, hoping to ease relations with their strange host into something more cordial.

The old man looked down and again a faint smile touched his lips. "Lambs. Trapped - crevasse." He jerked his head in the direction of the mountains above them. "Shepherd knows sheep. Sheep know voice."

This did not seem to illuminate the situation much, except in so far as the old man obviously knew his bible, which was nothing surprising.

Jess looked at the sheep. "Lyin' down in safety," he murmured.

The old man nodded. "Safe. Boy Blue. Injured. You. Fallen." He made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the surrounding shelter. "Brought here. Safe."

"We'd feel a whole lot safer if you'd stop aimin' that gun at us," Jess pointed out, quite mildly.

"Stay." The gun twitched a moment and was then lowered. They both heaved a sigh of relief. "You intend no harm," the old man added and it came to them that perhaps the gun had been for his protection, not to force them. But neither of them wanted to bet on it, even though they no longer really feared that the old man's intentions, erratic though they appeared, were hostile.

Seeking to change the subject, Slim indicated the hanging uniform with its medals. "Yours?"

There was a long pause. Into it, the harsh old voice whispered the first real sentence they had heard him utter: "The man who wore that uniform no longer exists."

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 _The woman's keen eyes picked out the overturned wagon in the snowdrift at once._

 _It was too close to the meeting point to be a co-incidence._

 _But why would he bring a wagon?_

 _She set aside trying to work out the way he thought. Long ago they had realised that love did not make all communication easy._

 _She took the child's hand again and, gently, stealthily, together they began to descend to the wagon._

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The old man looked away from the gently moving uniform and stared into the fire instead. A little silence settled upon them.

Into it, Jess quoted softly: " _The eye of him that hath seen me shall see me no more: thine eyes are upon me, and I am not._ "

The old man raised his gaze and looked wonderingly. Then he nodded and responded: " _As the cloud is consumed and vanisheth away: so he shall return no more to his house, neither shall his place know him any more…_ "

 _Jess quoting the book of Job?_ Slim mentally shook his head. His partner was full of surprises, but, whatever his reason for doing so, it obviously struck a chord with the old man. Slim reconsidered the old man's lamentable physical situation, the stunted nature of his speech – as if he had not spoken to another human being for a very long time – and what appeared to be a curious habit of rescuing animals and people. Something traumatic had happened in his life, he was sure, and, if Jess's choice of scripture could touch this hurt, Slim was going to do all he could to help sustain such fragile communication.

All this while, Jess had been sitting perfectly still, in that uncanny way he had when he was focusing his attention on a story. But no story had been told, or, at least, not in words. Now he let the bearskin slide off his shoulders and stood up to reach for his drying pants.

Slim stifled a protest. He knew perfectly well Jess would not take a blind bit of notice if, as Slim suspected, the indignity and the fleas had got too much for him. Instead he said: "You sure those are dry enough to wear?"

Jess shrugged dismissively. The old man cleared his throat harshly as if about to speak, but he didn't. When they both looked at him, he jerked his head in the direction of the hanging uniform and ordered: "Take!"

"Hell, no!" Jess's chin went up and the glint of old pain flashed in his eyes. It was a Union cavalry uniform.

"Rebel!" the old man chuckled. He might have been commenting on Jess's attitude, but he wasn't. "Damn Johnny Reb!" His own eyes glittered reminiscently.

"Yeah." Jess had pulled on the pants and was now disappearing into his shirt. There was a moment of struggle with the damp fabric, before he re-emerged, demanding: "You gotta problem with that?"

The old man shook his head and actually grinned. "Fighters, every one. Damn fine fighters, even in defeat."

Jess gave him an answering grin: "No food. No boots. No bullets. We were better at starvin' and stealin' and singin' to keep our spirits up."

"So sing!" The command in the rough voice was filled with the expectation of instant obedience.

He didn't get it. Jess finished dressing and once more sat cross-legged beside the fire. His head bowed a little, as if he was thinking. Then, very softly, his resonant baritone lifted in a haunting Appalachian melody:

.

 _It's grape shot and musket, and the cannons lumber loud,_

 _There's many a mangled body, the blanket for their shroud:_

 _There's many a mangled body, left on the fields alone,_

 _I am a Rebel soldier, and far from my home._

 _._

 _Here's a good old cup of brandy and a glass of wine,_

 _You can drink to your true love and I will drink to mine_

 _You can drink to your true love and I'll lament and moan,_

 _I am a Rebel soldier, and far from my home._

 _._

 _I'll eat when I'm hungry and I'll drink when I'm dry,_

 _If the Yankees don't kill me, I'll live till I die,_

 _If the Yankees don't kill me and cause me to mourn,_

 _I am a Rebel soldier, and oh so far from home._

 _._

The words died into the cold air. They were all silent, remembering so many friends and comrades, left on the field alone.

The old man stirred, as if he sensed something beyond human perception.

"One comes!"

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 _Coming up to the drift, the woman signed to the child to remain still, before she approached the wreck._

 _Reading the tracks, despite the snowfall, she could see the pattern of the accident._

 _The draft horses cut loose. A ridden horse galloping away._

 _Men, three of them, going uphill from the wagon._

 _Her man would go after the loose horses, this she knew._

 _But did he know about the others? Would he ride back into an ambush?_

 _She signaled the child to come down and join her. Motioning him into the shelter under the wagon, she gave the sign for 'stay here!'_

 _She carefully obliterated both their tracks, knowing she could trust the snow to cover any remaining traces._

 _She set out to find the one she had come to meet._

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The old man heaved himself to his feet, ready to set out on another rescue mission. For a moment he stood struggling for breath. Then he made determinedly for the door. As he passed Slim, he ordered: "Follow!"

"Yes, sir!" Slim responded automatically from ingrained training. In any case, there was no way he would let this frail warrior venture out on his own. But before he followed, he succumbed to the urging of his natural common-sense and protective instincts: "Jess, stay -"

A harsh bark of laughter interrupted his suggestion. The old man looked over his shoulder and locked eyes with Jess. "Reb'll do what he chooses. No sense in ordering." He jerked his head, indicating that he and Slim should go out into the gathering dusk and the still falling snow.

Slim looked across the smoky hovel. Jess's eyes were glinting crystal blue in the firelight as if challenging Slim to make him remain behind. Sure enough, as he shrugged into his coat and picked up his hat, he growled: "Ain't no kinda dog, to be told to stay!"

"I never –"

"Shut up, Hard Rock! You'll never let anyone come to harm if y' can prevent it – never mind how mad they are! Ain't lettin' you go with him on y'own."

This point resolved, they went out, side by side, as always. They followed the old man back down the well-trampled path to the track and the snow-drift. Once again, he moved more swiftly than one with a damaged leg should be able to. The scene seemed, at first sight, no different from when they had left it. Their tracks were clear in the snow, although beginning to fill with the new fall. But Jess stepped to one side and looked hard at the snow's surface. He said nothing, but his expression suggested that he read something not readily visible to the immediate glance.

The old man was already ploughing his way down to the wagon, impelled by some instinct which was more than physical. He seemed like one possessed, but when he came to the wagon, he halted and became utterly still. Time seemed to stand still too. Slim and Jess found that they were holding their breath, although they did not know if it was from fear or wonder.

"Come out, chincala, little one." The old man's voice was gentler and quieter than any utterance they had heard him make before.

Something stirred under the protection of the wagon-bed. A small child, perhaps two years old, emerged cautiously, like a hunted animal leaving its burrow. The old man and the child stood and stared at each other. Slim and Jess went on holding their breath, trying to merge into the background and leave this fragile moment to grow as it would.

"Thunkasila!" The child held out his arms to the old man and the old man lifted him up, setting him upon his shoulders. He turned back to the slope, evidently intending to carry the child to his shelter.

At once, Slim and Jess were either side of him, giving their support and strength to enable rescuer and child to make it safely back to the track. Like a latter-day St Christopher, the tall old man, with the child on his shoulders, limped up the path to his shelter. His supporters matched him pace for pace, attentively watching lest he stumble or fall, yet allowing him the dignity of handling the situation as he thought fit. After all, the child had called him 'Grandfather'.

 **#**

 **# # #**

 **#**

 _The woman reached the main track to Laramie. She halted again, listening hard._

 _From the direction of the town, she heard the muted thud of hooves, the sound of voices._

 _If he had met his own kind, best she stay in the shadows._

 _Better still, she should go back to the place set for their meeting. He would expect them both, mother and child, to be there._

 _She turned and swiftly threaded her way along the tree-line once more._

 _She was almost directly above the drift when the iron teeth closed about her ankle._

 **#**

 **# # #**

 **#**

Mort's eyes snapped on to the wagon-tracks the moment they left the main trail. From Fitzwilliam's somewhat uncertain account, he had expected something like this. He raised his good hand, halting the rescue party. The tracks of Fitzwilliam's horse, both coming and going, were clear. So were those of Bessy and Tally, over-laying them. Whatever had happened to Slim and Jess, they had not begun walking home.

"Gonna get dark soon, Mort," pointed out Toby Miller, Job's comforter that he was!

"I can see that!" Mort retorted irritably. He was thinking hard. Slim and Jess were well able to take care of themselves – and each other. He did not really give much credence to the Reverend's description of a ghostly figure causing the accident; it was likely to be something much more substantial to make the stolid draught horses spook. And as far as Fitzwilliam had seen, both the boys had been in one piece when he was run away with. The settlers, on the other hand, needed all the help they could get if they were not to be cut off indefinitely and the town needed its doctor back pronto.

"Take the men on, Toby, and get working on the avalanche," Mort ordered. "I'm no use for digging, so I'll see if I can find out what happened to the wagon and its drivers. If they're ok, they'll have to walk back this far and double up with two of you. If not, I'll find you up at the river." He was regretting that, in the rush to the rescue, they had not brought Alamo and Traveller along.

"Bet they're holed up somewhere with a spare bottle of whisky or two!" some wit in the posse quipped.

"They'd better not be!" Mort growled. "If they are, they'll be walking all the way back to Laramie!" He turned his horse and headed off along the secondary track.

He hunched in his saddle and hitched his coat with one hand, trying to pull his collar up further. At least the snow had finally stopped. A brisk wind was blowing the clouds south and, in a clear sky, the sinking sun gilded the snow with drops of gold. It was going to get extremely cold. Mort hoped fervently that neither of his young friends was hurt and that they had found some decent shelter. The forest was thick on the slopes above and it would be warmer under the trees. He ought to be able to track them if they had left the wrecked wagon. _And if they had any sense, they would have …_

 _Sense … well, Slim had plenty of it, but …_ Mort reflected ruefully … _it was sometimes extremely difficult, if not impossible, to anticipate how Jess would react … unless there was a friend involved, of course, in which case …_ Mort grinned slightly and shook his head … _in which case, you could pretty well guarantee Jess would react with utter loyalty and total disregard for the consequences! Fortunately, his regard for Slim was even stronger … and usually Slim had common-sense enough for them both …_

The wheel-ruts veered suddenly off the road and Mort saw the dark outline of the wagon below. He stopped and looked around carefully, taking in the enormous drift which was blocking the way ahead. _No knowing what kind of situation this was._ There was no indication of the presence of anyone but plenty of evidence in the churned up snow of a good deal of activity. He tethered his horse to a convenient tree and slithered down to the wagon, his feelings torn between hope and worry. There was no-one there.

And then he heard the sound.

 **#**

 **# # #**

 **#**

 _The woman stumbled to her knees, her ankle trapped and blood running bright on the pale snow._

 _She turned, trying to wrench the jaws of the trap apart, but she knew it was useless._

 _She could only kneel and pray, pray that he would come swiftly._

 _Almost immediately, as if the Great Spirit had stooped over her and answered her prayer, she heard the muffled sound of hooves._

 _A lone horseman appeared. Halted. Dismounted. Searched the wagon._

 _There was nothing there. If the child had been there, the man would have discovered him._

 _A piercing wail of grief ululated from her throat._

 **#**

 **# # #**

 **#**

The shock of the cry paralysed Mort for an instant. He knew the sound well. The keening of a tribeswoman for the death of one close to her. He clawed his way one-handed up the slope and headed for the trees.

Just within the verge of the forest, he found the woman, her leg caught in the saw-toothed trap, her blood staining the snow. Dark eyes stared at him from a curtain of dark hair. She made no sound. She never moved.

Looking at him, the woman saw a stranger. A man with his right arm in a sling. A man showing his age in the lines of his face and the colour of his hair, as the light-eyed ones did. But the crinkles at the corners of his eyes suggested a life-time of smiling and his mouth was not cruel. And she was trapped, unless this stranger could free her.

Mort bent over the trap and saw at once that he would not be able to open it with his bare hands, even if he had had two fully functional ones. Fortunately the woman was slender and, by some miracle, the teeth had not embedded in her leg, although they had cut the skin in passing on either side of the bone.

"Thowas!" It was one of the words he hoped he remembered correctly and was reassured when she nodded. Besides, she would have to wait until he worked out what to do: she wasn't able to make a dash for the thick cover of the forest, as he was sure she would have done otherwise.

He went over to his horse and pulled his rifle out of the saddle holster. It was a good one and he preferred not to damage it. But a human being was more important than a gun. He returned to the woman's side and looked carefully again at the trap.

It was spring-loaded, rusty with disuse and weathering, and it looked as if the two jaws had almost fused together when she had sprung it. Mort examined the spring mechanism even more carefully but decided that it was so corroded he could not reverse its action. Unfortunately it was not corroded enough for him just to be able to break it.

Instead he first got rid of the hampering sling so that he could use both hands. It wasn't going to do him or his rifle much good, but there was no other way. He inserted the rifle barrel between the teeth, close to the woman's leg and began to use his full weight on this makeshift lever.

The protesting iron screeched as he slowly prised it apart. The woman still made no sound. She just jerked her ankle out of the trap as soon as there was enough space. Mort pulled the rifle away equally quickly and the jaws of hideous device clanged together again, devoid of its prey.

The woman was bleeding quite badly, but her leg seemed to be otherwise undamaged. Mort cautiously held out the sling. He knew better than to lay a hand on her, for the knife in her belt was no ornament. But she just used it to cut the material into strips and bound the cuts firmly.

It was when she tried to stand and get away that Mort's instinctive kindness came into full play. As she staggered her face revealed a level of pain which he could not ignore, although it was swiftly concealed by silent impassivity. With his damaged shoulder, there was no way he could carry her. He simply offered her his good arm to lean on, as any gentleman would.

The woman stared at him for a moment, her brow wrinkling as she considered the gesture and its meaning. Memories of the fort flooded back. The stranger intended no harm: she had nothing to be afraid of. She allowed herself to lean on the proffered arm.

When he tried to guide her back to the wagon, the only visible shelter around, she shook her head. Instead she steered them both to the much-trampled path leading to the cave and they made the painful ascent arm in arm.

They came to the door of the tent and stooped beneath it, still linked together.


	3. Chapter 3

'To save us all from Satan's power

when we were gone astray …'

 **#**

 **# 3 #**

 **#**

The old man had carried the child right up to the entrance of the tent. The effort had cost him dearly. His chest heaved and his breath came in rasping gasps, each one dragging air into his lungs with agonising effort.

Restraining their urge to help cost Jess, and Slim particularly, a painful effort too. But they could see that the whole integrity of this valiant old warrior was vested in his ability to rescue and sustain others. And the child had called him 'Grandfather'. Who were they to interfere?

The old man gently lowered the child to the ground and led him inside. Slim at once took more fuel and made the fire up to another good blaze. Jess spread one of the rugs on the floor beside it, making a nest for the child. The sheep, who had lumbered up at their entrance, settled down close by, like a couple of woolly draught-excluders.

Another fit of coughing wracked the old man. Slim hastily poured him a cup of water. When he had drunk and wiped his mouth, they saw bright blood on the sleeve he had used. The partners exchanged a worried glance. They had seen enough people die from pneumonia to realise that the old man, despite his extraordinary physical fortitude, was seriously ill.

As if to confirm their dismaying perception, he dropped down on to the bed of bracken. Jess hastily reached out and covered him with another of the skin rugs. Beside the ailing old soldier, the child snuggled down and, with the trust and relaxation of the young, promptly fell asleep.

"Is there anything we can do?" Slim asked, although experience told him that, after all the exertion, the sufferer's time was limited.

"Listen!" The old man was both sweating and shivering. They could see the rapid beat of his heart in the pulse at his throat and his breathing was shallow and much too quick.

"Listen!" he repeated. "I have little time left. I must tell you – must make my confession." His eyes closed and he quoted again: " _My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle, and are spent without hope_. _I will speak in the anguish of my spirit._ "

Slim and Jess exchanged dismayed glances. This sounded much more serious than they had bargained for. But their full attention was all they had to give.

"Tell us," Slim responded gently. He sat down at the end of the bed and Jess curled up beside the child.

The old man closed his eyes again, as if in prayer, before he began to speak. When he did, his voice was different: serious, confident, the assured tones of a man used to command. It was an educated voice, too: the voice of someone civilised and responsible – a far cry from the wild reputation which he had in the surrounding countryside and his broken, stunted communication with them so far. He spoke slowly, as if every word was precious and carefully chosen.

"It was winter. The storms were terrible. Deep drifts, constant snowfall. Our horses were weakened and struggling in the conditions. Our supplies were running low. We came to a wooded valley, sheltered, with a broad stream, a shallow river, running through it. It was a time of turbulence, of terrible raids and attrition. We had been ordered to pursue and destroy the hostile forces at all costs. We bivouacked for the night, but almost immediately the scouts brought in news of a tribal camp in the immediate vicinity. We could not afford to ignore the danger. We set out in the cold starlight to attack them."

He paused, his breath rattling in his throat. His hand dropped to stroke the head of the sleeping child. Then he continued: "It was Christmas Eve. The time when the Holy Family returned to their home town, Joseph and Mary travelling to the place where they and their Child were safe."

A rustle of fabric over the doorway caused them all to turn. A man and a woman stood on the threshold. The old soldier drew a breath, between a gasp of surprise and a laugh of recognition. He said: "And Joseph was an old man!"

It was doubtful whether Mort Cory had ever been taken for a participant in the Nativity before, but since Joseph had both integrity and responsibility, he fulfilled the role well. On the other hand, the woman was young, but she was not pregnant. She gave a cry, hastily stifled, and sped across the hovel to kneel beside the child.

No-one moved for what seemed like a long time. Mort remained motionless just inside the door; he was mightily relieved to find his friends, despite both of them looking rather battered. Jess stayed sitting on the floor near the head of the bed. The woman knelt, shaking with the strain of her accident and perhaps shivering a little, despite her resilience. Then Slim slid his arms out of his warm coat and gently draped it over the woman's shoulders. She made no acknowledgement, just knelt by the bed, her hand on the child, but her eyes on the old man.

A painful smile twisted his lips. "You, of all people, have the right to know," he told the woman. When her eyes stayed linked with his, he continued his story: "It was Christmas Eve. The starlight was cold and bright. The snow pure and undefiled. But their vigilance was greater than ours. We rode into a trap." He paused again, his breath rasping in his throat and lungs. "Before dawn came, my son, my boy in blue, was dying, his blood leaching away the strength of his youth, his beauty dimmed by the pain of his wound. There was nothing we, nothing the surgeon, could do. He died after hours of agony."

His head came up and the light of madness gleamed in his eyes. "We had been ordered to destroy. So I gave the command to destroy the camp and everyone in it. They were nothing, strangers without a name. Alien savages to whom I owed no comfort, only hatred. We thundered down like the avenging furies. All day we fought as if the Devil was in us. We slaughtered every living thing, even the ponies. We razed the tents to the ground and burned every possession we found. The waters of the stream ran red with blood. Bodies lay strewn across the pure snow, hacked and dismembered. At evening, the smoke of destruction rose into the clear, starlit sky."

There was silence. Into it, the old man said: "It was Christmas Day. The day on which Christ was born to save our souls from Satan's power. When I came to my senses, I saw who we had destroyed. Women. Children. Old men."

His head drooped and he seemed spent by the agony and fury of his story. Yet he heaved a painful breath and went on: "I continued to lead my troop. The war of the Great Rebellion came and I played my part. But all too soon I found we were once again fighting children and old men." He stopped abruptly and looked at Jess. "How old were you?"

"Fifteen."

"Old enough, then."

"Yeah. There were kids younger."

"I could not bear it. Not with the memory of what I had ordered that day, the satanic work I had done. But yet somehow I went on until a bullet shattered my hip and pierced my lung. Then I was no more use in the military. Then I could begin to make reparation for my sins." He stopped and looked round the primitive hut. "I became a hermit, a wanderer, seeking to aid and comfort strangers, where once I had destroyed. Year after year, I strove to make amends. But even the mother of God could not plead forgiveness from the families I had slaughtered."

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death." It was Jess's voice which fell softly into the deep silence, but the woman who stretched out her hand to touch the old man.

"I understand."

As she said this, the child stirred sleepily. His eyes opened, dark and gleaming, with an innocent wonder at finding himself in the cave, nestling by the fire in the company of the sheep. He stretched and scrambled to his feet, coming to lean against his mother as she held the old man's hand. The three onlookers merged with the shadows as the firelight flared, lighting the tableau with warmth – the woman, the child, the old warrior, linked by a deep and gentle salvation which went far beyond any words they could share.

At length the old man whispered: "I should like to stand beneath the stars once more. To feel again the purity of this blessed season."

The woman stood up, sliding her arms into the coat. She held out her arm to the man and her hand to the child. Together they moved slowly to the entrance and Mort lifted it open for them. When they had passed outside, Mort, Slim and Jess waited a little. It seemed only right to allow a dying man the privacy of his last wish.

When they went quietly out, the three friends saw the little family standing some way down the path. The woman was slender and still, the dark blue of Slim's coat enclosing her like a mantle and the white sheepskin collar throwing into relief the blackness of her flowing hair. The tall old man stood upright and serene, his face lifted to the heavens, his hair and beard stirred by the piercing wind, like an ancient prophet. Between them the child gazed in wide-eyed wonder.

Beyond where they stood, the land fell away steeply and the vastness of the night sky seemed so close that you could reach out and pluck the thick and glittering constellations like garlands of flowers. The air was cold and bright. The snow pure and undefiled. The slopes below them were clad in thick forest, the fringe of trees silhouetted blackly as if they had been cut out of fine paper; the snow on their branches glimmered like twinkling lights and each tip reached up and was surmounted by a pulsing star.

The old man sighed and his head dropped on his breast. "I am glad to have been given peace at last."

Before he could fall, Slim was at his side, catching the trembling body in his arms, and Jess was not a second behind him. Mort once more held up the door covering and they carried their burden back to the bed he had chosen for so many years. They had scarcely covered his emaciated body, when a little stream of blood trickled from his lips. His breath caught once in his throat and sighed away into nothing.

As if the old warrior's failing heartbeat had frozen them too, they were all still. Slim and Jess knelt beside the simple bed. Mort was at the door. The woman and child stood together in the middle of the hut.

How long they would have remained so could not be told. But there was the soft sound of footsteps outside, the door-flap lifted once more and a young man entered. There was a rough bandage about his temples. He was wearing ordinary working clothes, but over them, the blue great-coat of a Union soldier. He strode over to the bed and knelt for some minutes between the other two young men. Then he rose and stooped and kissed the old man's forehead.

When he had done this, he turned to the hanging uniform and took hold of the jacket. It began to disintegrate as soon as he touched it. He gathered all the fabric together and stood with it in his hands. He looked first at the woman and next at the two young men beside the bed and finally at the older man standing by the door. Receiving brief nods from all of them, he dropped the uniform into the fire. It was so dry and fragile that it flared up briefly and burned with a fierce flame for a few minutes until there was nothing left.

The young man held out his arms and child jumped joyfully into them. He was lifted onto broad shoulders and settled there. The woman made as if to take off the coat she had been lent, but Slim shook his head and smiled. It was a small gift for whatever journey this family had to undertake. The young man put his arm round the woman and hugged her to him.

Jess rose from his knees and bent down and picked up the bar of medals, which had torn away from the disintegrating fabric of the tunic. He looked for a moment deep into the father's eyes. He handed the medals to the little boy, who clutched them to his own chest.

The young man surveyed all three strangers with swift appreciation. Then, before anyone could say anything, the family were gone.


	4. Chapter 4

'O, tidings of comfort

and joy …'

 **#**

 **# 4 #**

 **#**

Three figures were silhouetted against the heavens at the edge of the Laramie cemetery. It was a day of pale blue skies and little scudding clouds and there were buds on the bushes and bird-song was loud in trees which fringed the burial ground.

Slim and Jess were taking turns to dig the hole for the headstone. When it was deep enough, they lifted it carefully into place and firmed down the earth around it. Mort had been watching all the while. It was his patient research which had eventually given the penitent warrior a name for his resting place. He nodded in satisfaction as his young friends completed their self-appointed task. Slim and Jess dusted the earth from their hands as they re-read the inscription and what it told of the man whose last resting place they had marked.

 _R.I.P._

 _Theodore Stephen Armitage_

 _Colonel, Second United States Cavalry_

 _Died Christmas 1870_

' _I am clean and free from guilt.' Job 33:9_

"Good." Mort spoke for them all. "He deserves peace now and an honourable grave."

"Yeah, he got the absolution he needed," Jess agreed.

The other two looked at him in astonishment.

"I never knew you were a Catholic, Jess?" Mort exclaimed, giving voice to his bewilderment.

"I'm not," Jess answered, contriving his usual look of total innocence when put on the spot.

"So how come you know that _and_ all the stuff about the Mother of God?" Slim joined in, since he had been equally surprised at what his partner had said at the old man's deathbed.

"It's all down to education," Jess told them. And when they looked totally skeptical – education, after all, never having been uppermost in Jess - he explained simply: "I never got much schoolin' but what I did get was from an old Catholic priest. He sure didn't manage to teach me to spell or add up, but I guess some of his ideas, the words and the meanings, got into my memory, like I remember stories."

"This was certainly a story," Slim conceded. He thought a bit and added: "A family story."

The three of them stood quietly by the grave in the weak Spring sun, considering the events of Christmas and the unexpected relationship they had formed, almost without a word spoken, with the young family. Presently Slim voiced the mystery which had been in all their minds on and off ever since.

"Where they ghosts, do you think?"

He gave an involuntary shiver. But Jess remembered the look in the young man's eyes and smiled and murmured softly, "Whatever they were, in that time and that place, they were a holy family."

Mort thought about the bible story and added with a grin: "Well, I obviously qualify as a wise man, but I can't see you two taking on the role of shepherds!"

Slim looked horrified. "No way am I having any more to do with sheep!"

" _You_ weren't that close to them," Jess pointed out, "but I agree – no shepherdin'."

"Guess you must be playing the angels then?" Mort suggested, and he was not entirely joking, given all that they had done.

Jess rocked with laughter, but his voice was full of genuine appreciation as he said: "Slim, maybe. He's already wearin' an invisible halo! But me?" His face screwed up and he jammed on his hat as if to prevent anyone giving him one. "The only role left for me is the donkey."

"In that case," Slim chortled gleefully, "You can carry the spade."

"Hell, no! It's your spade," Jess scowled, somehow managing to sound entirely justified. "You're the one who likes diggin' post holes." He folded his arms and his chin went up, a sure sign he was not going to be easily persuaded.

Slim scowled back at him, but eventually broke the impasse by picking up the disputed implement. "Donkey, huh? Yeah, you can be as idiotic as one sometimes. But mostly you're just a stubborn mule!"

"Hey, donkeys ain't fools!" Jess objected. "They're wise. Tough. Survivors. Just like me."

"Huh! Guess they go swimming in frozen rivers and stuck under wagon-axles too?"

"The axle wasn't my fault!" Jess protested vigorously. "And you'd've jumped in that river just like I did. Only difference is, y' halo would've kept you warm!"

"Children! Children!" Mort chided, looking down at the grave of the man who had shown them how peace could grow from conflict. Then he grinned and hummed a brief snatch of tune and quoted: " _All you within this place - with true love and brotherhood, each other now embrace_!"

There was a little pause before Slim flung an arm round Jess's shoulders and tightened his grip in a slight hug. "I guess there are times when having a stubborn mule of a partner, who'll never give in, is an advantage."

"And maybe so's havin' a rock-firm one with a halo!" Jess responded with an affectionate grin. Slim let his arm drop, but they remained standing together, Slim slightly behind Jess, close at his right shoulder. Mort nodded in approval, reassured by this familiar sight.

When they had walked back to their horses, Slim fastened the spade to his saddle: Alamo, did not seem any more keen on spades than Jess was. They would part here, for Mort had to return to his duties in town and the relay station lay in the opposite direction. They had all mounted up, when Jess gave Traveller a nudge to bring him alongside Alamo and elbowed Slim in the ribs.

"What?"

"I reckon Mort's finally showin' signs of his advanced age," Jess stated solemnly.

"You do?"

"Yeah. Singin' carols at this time of year."

"What's wrong with a good carol?" Mort demanded.

Slim and Jess exchanged looks before they grinned and reminded him together, in perfect unison: "It's Easter!"

It was Mort's turn to scowl. "So what? You reckon the message doesn't run right through the year?"

He turned his horse for Laramie somewhat grumpily, but as he rode away a smile twitched his lips and a chuckle escaped his throat. Behind him, receding into the distance, but clear on the still air, the amicable harmony of two voices rang out cheerfully: " _God rest you merry, gentlemen …_ "

Presently the last lines drifted into his ears: " _This holy tide of Christmas, all other doth efface_!"

"Yeah, I told you it does!" Mort laughed aloud, partly at their cheek, but partly for the surprising joy of unexpected forgiveness that the three of them had witnessed in this strange Christmas encounter. And because, as far as Slim and Jess were concerned, their companionable bickering was nothing compared to the true brotherhood between them that endured from season to season.

.

* * *

.

Notes:

Acknowledgement: _For all chapters: The great creative writing of the 'Laramie' series is respectfully acknowledged. My stories are purely for pleasure and are inspired by the talents of the original authors, producers and actors._

 _Many thanks to NokuMarieDeux for help with vocabulary._

The old man's story is loosely based on the Battle of Washita, as recorded by Edward S. Godfrey.

The Carol: 'Efface' (to eclipse or outshine) is used in this story because the original word, 'deface', now has a totally difference meaning. _God rest you merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay_ is one of the oldest extant carols, dated to the 16th century or earlier. The earliest known printed edition of the carol is in a broadsheet dated to c. 1760. The version used for this story is from _Christmas Carols Ancient and Modern_ , W. B. Sandys (1833).

Job 7:6-11

My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle, and are spent without hope.

O remember that my life is wind: mine eye shall no more see good.

The eye of him that hath seen me shall see me no more:

thine eyes are upon me, and I am not.

As the cloud is consumed and vanisheth away:

so he that goeth down to the grave shall come up no more.

He shall return no more to his house, neither shall his place know him any more.

Therefore I will not refrain my mouth;

I will speak in the anguish of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.


End file.
